Olympic Debate
Am I missing something???
I can’t actually believe there is a debate going on (Mail, Daybreak, Mumsnet etc) about the fact that babies need their own tickets for the Olympics.
Really?????
What parent in their right mind would want to take their new born baby to a loud, excitable, crowded, unsafe environment such as the Olympics?!
Do none of these “fuming” mothers think for one minute that perhaps it would be better if baby missed the Olympics; that they could possibly be better off NOT going?
All I know is that if I had tickets to the Olympics, I would be pretty pissed off if I found I was sat next to a screaming baby who wanted to be anywhere other than at the event.
Similarly, I certainly wouldn’t be irresponsible enough to take my own children until they were old enough for me to explain why it was so noisy and how they should behave.
And as for those women who claim it is discrimination against those who choose to breastfeed, that is absolutely ridiculous – from the first week the baby is born you can express milk and feed it to the baby a bottle, so get someone to babysit… and voila!
I’m sure I’m not alone in this opinion – part of becoming a parent is accepting that you have to make small sacrifices along the way, such as missing events and having to stay in with your own children.
And if the Olympics are that important, and take precedence over the birth of a beautiful new baby, shut up and get a babysitter.
A Minefield for Mum’s
The latest ‘fad’ study shows that formula-fed babies sleep more, cry less, and smile more.
So much for “breast is best” – but how come my breast-fed first born slept through the night from six weeks, rarely cried, was chilled out and smiled for England??
Frankly, I think it’s all a load of RUBBISH.
This so called ‘study’ was based on just 300 babies and yet makes assumptions for ALL children – hardly a conclusive report now was it? And yet I expect some impressionable women will have read this article, and have now decided not to breastfeed their babies.
And this is just one of millions of studies which leave women up and down the country confused about what they should and shouldn’t be doing when having a baby.
Oh yes, a few days ago it was reported that eating junk food during pregnancy would give your unborn child diabetes.
Then there was the one about how pregnant women can boost their children’s brain power by eating more fish.
I’ve also read that eating for two can harm the baby (well I ate enough cake for four and mine turned out okay….. although they do love cake).
Other articles to appear in the last six months alone say that women trying to conceive should take vitamins, drinking too much coffee during pregnancy can affect a son’s fertility and heavily pregnant women should get enough sleep (no shit Sherlock).
Everywhere you look there is advice for what pregnant women should do, what foods they should and shouldn’t eat, how much weight they should put on, what they can drink, how they should give birth, what kind of pain relief they should accept etc etc.
Then there are the articles which say what you should do when the baby arrives, bottle feeding or breast feeding, putting the baby in a cot or in your bed, temperature of the room, disposable nappies or eco-friendly washable poo pants etc etc.
Honestly it’s a minefield, and if women were to take every piece of advice they were given when having a baby, they would be so stressed out… oh hang on, you’re not supposed to get stressed though are you?
My opinion is this – don’t believe everything you read. Don’t listen to everyone’s advice because everyone will think they know best. And use your common sense – it’s obvious 20 pints on a night out isn’t good idea, neither is glugging a whole pot of fresh coffee, eating 40 eggs a day and snacking on three bags of peanuts at a time.
Happy New Year!
A very Happy New Year!
Well, it took me about four months of planning to get to Christmas Day and then it was over in one day.
Four months of writing lists, shopping for friends and family, wrapping presents, planning the time of work, and getting the kids excited for the big day.
And we were SO excited, ridiculously excited in fact, to the point of mild hysteria.
And then our family were hit with the shocking news that my brother might not be home for Christmas due to a mysterious illness which effectively left him paralysed from the waist down.
I won’t say any more than that because it’s his story to tell, and I’m sure he’d like to forget all about it.
But what I can say is that in those December weeks his illness changed my whole perception of what Christmas is all about. It was a bit like someone giving me a rather large slap in the face.
I’d spent months fussing about presents, worrying about spoiling my children, panicking that I’d not spent enough money on everyone else.
But then suddenly all this didn’t seem to matter so much if the family couldn’t be together; when I realised that my brother might not be home to see his own daughter open her stocking on Christmas morning.
Suddenly the thought of celebrating Christmas didn’t seem that important anymore. All my heady plans for the weeks leading up to the 25th went awol; I couldn’t see the point in wrapping presents, couldn’t be arsed to go to the pantomime.
And I have to say that during this time my little brother – not that little actually, quite a hulking healthy bloke who might be 15 months younger than me but who is altogether brighter, taller, and annoyingly thinner (git) – proved to be an inspiration to all of us.
Not once did he moan about being laid up in hospital, he didn’t grumble about the food (which looked like dried sick) and was more concerned about how everyone was doing than himself.
And I’m sure it was his steely determination which led to him being discharged from hospital just a couple of days before Christmas.
It’s a long road to recovery for my brother, but I have every faith that in a few months he’ll be fighting fitter than the rest of us put together, same as always.
And perhaps next Christmas I’ll learn to (in the words of my four-year-old) “chillax” a bit and think more about the family than clearing the shelves of Toys R Us.
So here’s to a good, happy and HEALTHY New Year.
Bit of a Rant
Well it’s been a few weeks since I’ve blogged, but during this time there has been plenty to get het up about – if you read the news at least.
And so I’ve saved myself for a good old rant.
I was really irritated upon hearing the news about the government proposing that pregnant women should be given the choice to have a caesarean section rather than natural labour.
This is despite each operation costing the NHS £1,000 (um, I thought the NHS was short on cash?), and despite the fact there is a shortage of midwives (so who is going to look after all these women who opt for a c-section and then end up spending an additional 3 days in hospital with their babies??).
I find it incredible that this can even be considered as an option. Surely the very fact a c-section is considered a major operation – one which requires a surgical incision through abdominal muscle and uterus – should indicate that it’s not the ideal option.
As someone who has had two c-sections - and through no choice of my own I might add - I can confirm that your tummy muscles are never the same again, you can’t get up and walk around without pain after a few hours, and it’s a long hard process getting well again.
Why would anyone choose that over a natural labour? And yes alright, labour is horrendous, can be barbaric at times, and for some people is incredibly traumatic. But once it is finished, in most cases, it is finished. You might have the worst 24/48 hours ever, but it doesn’t last for weeks on end.
In most cases you can get up after a few hours and go home with your baby. You might have sore bits for a while but you can still move around with relative ease. And you haven’t cost the NHS an arm and a leg in the process.
What next???
Well, I could pick up on a number of things, but given the fact that today teachers are striking (AGAIN) in protest about their changing pensions, I think this is what irritates me most right at this moment.
I have blogged about strikes before. And the reason I am so opposed to them is not because I necessarily disagree with the reasons behind them (although, let’s face it, teachers don’t exactly get a bum deal do they?), but more I disagree with who it affects.
Take our scenario. I have no holiday entitlement left, as all of mine is allocated to school holidays.
So my husband, who runs a business with three other full time staff members, is off with the children. Two of his staff also have children, and have had to provide childcare.
This means, that my husband’s business cannot possibly function as normal today as there is only one member of staff managing the entire operation.
That’s just our situation, but there will hundreds of others suffering today as a consequence – forking out extra money in childcare, being forced to take holiday, taking unpaid leave etc.
Frankly I think it’s disgusting that teachers can be allowed to express themselves in a way which is going to affect millions of people, and millions of children.
Why should we suffer at their hands? Why should we pay for their problem? Why has this suddenly become our responsibility?
There are millions of unemployed people in Britain at this very moment – millions who would give their right arm for any sort of job, let alone one which provides 14 weeks holiday a year, short working hours, and some form of pension for the future.
I think teachers need to take a long hard look at what they have got, rather than constantly complaining about what they haven’t.
First Love
Well my first born managed to get to the tender age of 7 before getting embroiled in a messy romance.
I was accosted by this confident young female at the school gates the other day, who announced that my son was now her boyfriend. I looked at him and wondered if he’d had any choice in the matter at all – his head bowed, thumb in, I guessed not.
But, he announced in the car that the girl in question had “chased him round the playground to make him love her” and it had worked. But I wasn’t to worry because “he still loved me more”.
My initial thoughts were how cute, but little did I know that less than 24 hours later my dear child would be unceremoniously dumped in front of everyone in the classroom.
In actual fact, he is not bothered by the sudden death of his first relationship, admitting she was quite bossy and actually he liked someone else anyway.
I, on the other hand, was furious.
I cannot repeat what went through my mind, but on his behalf I felt aggrieved, and annoyed that she could treat my boy so flippantly. I can’t even bring myself to look at her, and give her the attention she was so clearly commanding throughout this debacle.
Alright, they’re only seven, and there is probably far worse to come as my son grows and learns that women are complicated, fickle, and frankly quite irritating.
And perhaps I have over-reacted slightly, but this did give me a little taster of what the future might bring – and I am armed and ready to fight off any little princess that wants to hurt my boy.
Watch out ladies, for I am set to be the worst mother in law to ever have walked this planet.
The Last Party
Yesterday marked the last of the big birthday parties for my son Ben. And the last party I EVER have at home.
When he asked for a seventh birthday party at our house, I thought nostalgically back to the lovely third birthday we’d held in the garden, toddlers wobbling round and playing cute games of pass the parcel.
Yeah I said, why not love? Why not indeed?
I’ll tell you why.
For some reason it didn’t occur to me that at age 7, parties at home are a whole different ball game. You need bunks of energy, eyes in the back of your head, and a very loud voice.
I didn’t bank on a water fight taking place in our downstairs loo.
Nor did I anticipate a food fight taking place over lunch.
And I especially didn’t expect a seven-year-old to go hurtling into the pond during our cute little treasure hunt.
I had imagined a rather more calm affair, where the children listened as I explained the rules to the games in a somewhat teacherly fashion.
I thought the treasure hunt I’d lovingly planned around the nature reserve would take around half an hour as the children worked together from clue to clue.
And I worried I’d ‘over-planned’ a little, perhaps I’d overdone it on all the games?
As it turned out, the treasure hunt which took me hours to prepare was over in five minutes as we sprinted around the reserve trying to keep up with the fastest kid who was annoyingly good at working out the clues and turned out to be some bloody Olympic athlete.
The same child also thought it would be amazingly good fun if he ran straight into the pond to spice things up a little. Frankly, I felt like giving him a little push for good luck.
And over lunch one bag of crisps thrown across the room (tent) was enough to send the kids into wild hysteria. Suddenly cocktail sausages were being used as mini torpedoes while ham sarnies were used as comfy cushions.
Then the games. I’d prepared 6. We needed about 15. So we improvised with tag games, running games, you name it.
The kids dressed each other in toilet rolls and pretended to be ‘mummies’. They smashed up four piñatas. They did musical bumps and chairs. They dug in the sand pit for treasure. They threw balls at alien faces.
And still they found time to sneak into the house for a quick water fight when one of us wasn’t looking.
All in all the whole affair was utterly utterly exhausting.
But was it worth it? Yes. Ben declared his day had been absolutely brilliant, and really that made the whole thing worthwhile.
But will we do it again? Absolutely not, never, no way.
READ ALL THE SIGNS!
I haven’t blogged for a while, it’s been the school break for the children, and I’ve also been on holiday.
Talking of which, our latest family holiday was quite an experience.
Our sightseeing on this particular holiday included a trip to the doctors, the pharmacist… oh, and the local prison.
Before going on holiday I wouldn’t have thought the words “are we going to jail mummy?” would have been uttered by my six year old… but they were… and we did.
Well, we didn’t strictly GO TO JAIL as in, GET LOCKED UP, but we did make a little trip there, 11 o’clock at night, to pick up our car.
I say pick up our car… but it was more like “pay the not-very-nice-lady £150 quid and we might let you have your car back”.
You see, we didn’t mean to park our car in the wrong place, but we did. I blame the fact none of us speak any French (not unless you count ‘bonjour’ and ‘merci’), but the fact we didn’t noticed the glaringly obvious road signs might also have had something to do with our bad luck.
It was our fifth night in the French Riviera, and we thought we’d treat ourselves to a nice meal in a neighbouring town.
We considered ourselves lucky to bag a fantastic parking space smack bang in the middle of town, and set off for dinner none the wiser.
After a lovely evening we returned to our parking spot with two tired children in tow. Only to find that in place of our hire car was now a ruddy great night market which, quite literally, ran through the entire town.
Immediately the panic set in, I could feel myself starting to lose the plot, wondering how we would ever get home, what trouble we would get into with the hire car company… my mind went into overdrive.
But then looking at the boys and their worried little faces, reality kicked in. We couldn’t let them think anything was wrong. We certainly couldn’t lose our tempers, blame each other or have an argument. So we decided we were on an adventure.
We managed to speak to the local police, who informed us we would have to walk 40 minutes or so to the compound at the police station, to pay to have our car back.
We ended up seeing some of the most amazing sights on our trek, the boys were amazingly well behaved and upbeat despite the fact we were heading to jail, and (thank god for Sat Nav) we found the station without any problem.
And despite having to pay out ridiculous amounts of money to get the car back, as well a pay off further fines for being so stupid, we now look upon this incident as one of the highlights of our trip.
To compensate for mummy and daddy being ‘very silly’ the boys were given the roles of ‘boss one’ and ‘boss two’ for the following day, dictating when we went swimming, ate, went to the beach, had sweets etc. to compensate for our idiocy. They loved the reward, and the power…
And we learnt a valuable lesson about looking on the brighter side of life.
Lifetime of a Vegetarian
It has been 12 months now since I started eating meat, after being a vegetarian for 22 years.
So far, I can conclude the following:
- Bacon tastes goooooood (if cremated)
- Chicken is distinctly average but makes a meal last longer
- Turkey is yum, but only at Christmas
- Sausages are okay, but I can only have one per meal
- Lamb is great when cooked for me by my local Indian restaurant and prepared in a delicious Tikka sauce, but not by me
- Beef is the food of the devil.
As you can see, I have a little way to go.
But why start eating meat now, after 22 years, I hear you cry?
Simple. My children.
Up until my eldest reached about age four, I could get away with producing two different meals at dinner time.
The boys rarely noticed that my anaemic looking Quorn sausages were different to their pig filled fat bangers.
And I could dupe them with a veggie spag bol as their taste buds weren’t educated enough to decipher between minced beef and minced soya beans.
But then the questions started to filter through – “why haven’t I got what you’ve got?”… “why aren’t you having the same as us?”…”I want what mummy’s got”.
And suddenly I realised the impact my self-imposed meat-ban was having on my children. They were starting to look at what was on their plates and consider whether they should be eating it or not, rather than shovelling it in as normal.
So after 22 years of (stubbornness following an ‘animal-rights-CND-peace-loving stage I went through aged 12) not eating meat, I made the decision to buck up my ideas.
Because the idea of my children refusing to eat ANY food type is unthinkable.
We have a motto in our house – if you try it and don’t like it, don’t continue eating it, but don’t say you don’t like it until you’ve tried it.
So I am trying everything. And I like to think that finally, I am setting a good example.
Some of it – like the tube-filled barbequed burger (yes, actual artery type tubes) – will not be passing my lips again. But I’m finding some meat is okay, and I’m actually enjoying sharing the same meal as my children.
My husband and I even shared our very first meal after 15 years together which was like going out on a first date.
And who knows, one day I might actually tuck into a bleeding steak with the enthusiasm of a blood hungry lioness.
Teacher Strikes
So tomorrow is set to see 750,000 public sector workers downing tools to strike against the propositions they retire later with a less valuable pension.
The suggestion is that teachers now retire at the grand old age of 68 as opposed to 60 as it currently stands.
Now while I don’t like the idea of my children, or their children, being taught by an elderly member of society, and I agree in principle with what the teachers are saying, I don’t think striking is the answer to the problem.
Because rather than having a great impact on the government, striking teachers are having more effect on the parents of the school children.
Education Secretary Michael Cove has briefly acknowledged the affect strikes will have on hard working families – claiming they will struggle to pay for childcare as their children are suddenly banned from school.
And he’s right. Have the teachers given any real thought to the hundreds of thousands of families across Britain tomorrow who have to take a day off work, or pay through the roof for emergency child care, in a bid to cover the unexpected ‘holiday’ imposed by 17,000 schools?
What annoys me is that teachers already have the equivalent of 14 weeks holiday a year –14 weeks more than any other profession - and 14 weeks working families struggle to cover.
So while I applaud the fact that teachers are standing up for their contractual rights, and should be acknowledged for doing a great job, I do think the methods in which they do this should change.
A child’s education shouldn’t suffer at the hands of their own teacher.
And working parents have a hard enough job as it is trying to cover the ridiculous amount of holiday teachers get, without them adding another day into the pot.
CHILDREN V CAREER
An article about Delia Smith on the Daily Mail website, where she admits she wouldn’t be the career woman she is if she had been able to have children, got me thinking – can women really have it all?
Is it really possible to have both a successful career and be an attentive, giving, devoted mother?
And I think the answer is no. You simply can’t have one without sacrificing another.
This might come as some surprise to my colleagues and my family, as I am a working mum, and manage to hold down a pretty decent part-time job, while being the main carer of my two boys.
But while I would consider myself to have a great career – I love the work, I hold a good position and the pay has allowed me to put two children through nursery – I wouldn’t say I was overly successful.
I haven’t reached the top of the ladder, and the truth of it is that I never will, at least not in the next 10 years because I have sacrificed my career to have children.
So unless I want to work full time, it simply isn’t possible to achieve great things at work. I do my best, but it’s not quite enough. I’m not complaining, it’s just the way it is.
And this is an active decision of mine. I chose to go part-time, I was lucky enough to land a job which allows me to do the school run, and my husband and I did discuss who should be the main carer of our kids.
And I chose to be the one who the children have as a constant presence in their life – I’m the one who attends the school events, cooks for the baking competitions, takes them to swimming lessons, has friends round to play, takes them to appointments, does their homework with them and so on.
I’m not criticising mums who work full time, and put their children into nursery or rely on child-minders or nannies to make things work. Some mums choose this route, some have no choice.
But the ones who choose to work full time, because they want to and for no other reason, are choosing work over all the other glorious factors that make being a parent.
So for a gleaming job title, the respect and admiration of colleagues, and a hefty pay packet, they are forfeiting time with the kids.
And for me, I find it hard to understand why any woman would choose a career over her children.
I get that working can be incredibly rewarding and a blessed relief from some of the more mundane motherly tasks (toddler groups, coffee mornings, washing cycles and role play to name but a few), and personally, my office is the only place where I can guarantee finishing a cup of tea, but it doesn’t compare to raising children.
For me, motherhood wins hands down over my career. But I also know I wouldn’t be as good a mother without it.
